


Crumbling Words

by madtransscientist



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Prince!Marco, Tangled AU, abuse not between Jean and Marco, hints of other pairings, thief!jean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-23 08:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4869641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madtransscientist/pseuds/madtransscientist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having been locked up in a tower for his entire life, there’s a lot Marco has missed—thus enters Jean; a grumpy and extremely wanted thief who has never known anything but complete freedom. He also just so happens to be the door leading to the beginning of Marco’s life.</p><p>Or, the Tangled AU nobody asked for with Jean as Flynn, Marco as Rapunzel and Eren taking on the role of Maximus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing for this fandom, and the first time I'm actually posting a fic - ever. So bear with me.
> 
> This was initially supposed to only be a jolly-dolly fic like the movie but my hand slipped. Don't worry though!! This is not only dark themes and sad faces, the majority of it is supposed to be happy and fluffy af. Also sappy—it is inspired by a romantic Disney movie after all.
> 
> HUGE thanks to my precious beta [Vaneh](http://vanehwasreal.tumblr.com) who went through hardships for me by managing to even beta this mumbo jumbo, and went into such detail she basically passed out. A LOT of cred goes to her and if anything's misspelled or wrong it's on me.
> 
> Also, I would never have been content posting any of this were it not for my nightly psychology discussions with my beloved [Elvira](http://h8c.tumblr.com), nor would any of this even exist if my sunshine [Tommy](http://sirpankakez.tumblr.com) hadn't sat with me for three hours into the night brainstorming the storyline and plot for this whole fic. He's to thank for more than half of all of this. Actual faves, best advisors.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

_Once upon a time, a single drop of sunlight fell from the heavens, and from this small drop of sun grew a magic golden flower. It had the ability to heal the sick and injured._

_Centuries passed, and a hop, skip and a boat ride away there grew a kingdom. The kingdom was ruled by a beloved king and queen. And the queen, she was about to have a baby, but she got sick. Really sick. She was running out of time and that’s when people started to look for a miracle -- or in this case, a magic golden flower._

_But, there was a woman outside the walls of the kingdom keeping a close eye on the flower. Instead of sharing the sun’s gift, this woman -- Mother Hitch -- hoarded its healing powers and used it to keep herself young for hundreds of years, and all she had to do was sing a special song._

. . .

“ _Flower, gleam and glow, let your power shine_  
 _Make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine_  
 _What once was mine…_ “

. . .

_But one evening during the kingdom’s frantic search for the flower, Mother Hitch had to hurry up and hide, and in her haste she accidentally revealed the flower’s hiding place, left with no time to correct her mistake. Mere seconds after Mother Hitch hid found a guard staring right at the flower, calling to the rest of the search patrol that he had found it._

_One by one they pulled off the golden petals and fed them to the queen, and with every petal she ate she gradually got better. It wasn’t until she had eaten every petal of the flower that she had healed completely, and so the magic of the golden flower made it possible for the queen to safely give birth to the child._

_A healthy baby boy, a prince was born, with brown hair that glistened with a beautiful golden shimmer in the sunlight._

_To celebrate his birth the king and queen launched a flying lantern into the sky, and for that one moment, everything was perfect-- and then that moment ended._

. . .

“ _Flower, gleam and glow_ ,” Mother Hitch sings in a hushed voice as she lifts up a lock of the baby’s now brightly shimmering hair, a result of her singing. “ _Let your power shine…_ ” She continues to sing as she lifts a pair of scissors to the lock of hair, “ _Make the clock re_ \--” She abruptly stops singing, because as she cuts off the lock it immediately turns unmistakably darker, losing its shimmer.

She gasps and drops the hair, staring down at the sleeping child, gears twisting and turning frantically inside her head.

. . .

_Ultimately, Hitch stole the child and disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared, nowhere to be found. The kingdom searched and searched but they could not find the prince, for deep within the forest, in a hidden tower, Hitch raised the child as her own._

_She makes it a habit to brush the prince’s hair as he sings, effectively continuing to keep herself young through the flower’s magic. Hitch had found her new magic flower, but this time, she was determined to keep it hidden. However, the prince remains unaware of the full capacity of his power. Mother Hitch had deliberately failed to tell him about his healing powers; keeping him in the dark from his true potential, as one of many tricks to force him to depend on her._

_The young prince once asked about why he couldn’t go outside, to which Hitch responded that the world outside is a dangerous place, filled with selfish, horrible people and that he must stay in the tower, where he is safe._

. . .

“Do you understand, flower?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

. . .

_But the walls of that tower could not hide everything. Each year on his birthday, the king, queen and the rest of the kingdom released thousands of lanterns into the sky in hope that one day, their beloved lost prince would return._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is when the actual story begins.
> 
> Again, huge thanks to my beta [Vaneh](http://vanehwasreal.tumblr.com) and my advisors [Tommy](http://sirpankakez.tumblr.com) and [Elvira](http://h8c.tumblr.com).
> 
> Another thing: this story will be written from both Jean and Marco's POV, I will probably write every second chapter from each of their POV, but I might do two chapters for one of them at some points and so on. So, next chapter will be from Jean's POV.
> 
> [whispers] also here is my [anime tumblr](http://www.getinthepool.tumblr.com)
> 
> Enjoy!

There’s the familiar whisper of a waterfall, a gust of wind creeping in through the open window of the tall tower. The falling sun slowly but steadily casts a shadow on the grass field surrounding the the tower and it crawls closer and closer.

Marco is following it with his gaze, barely even blinking. The increasing chill that comes with the dusk has him shivering in his light clothes, and yet, he doesn’t stand up to get himself a blanket. He stays in his spot by the window, staring longingly at the outside world that is being swallowed by the dark. But the dark merely makes freedom all the more tempting. Moving freely through the woods without being seen by anyone or anything.

When another gust enters the tower, caressing his cheek and dishevelling his hair, he reaches for his blue string. Gathering as much hair as possible into his fist without having to spend too much time on it, he ties it up in a sloppy ponytail to get it out of his face.

For being a person with actual magical hair, he is being quite careless with it. That’s at least what his mother likes to say. It’s not that Marco _doesn’t_ care; sure he does, but he just doesn’t care as much as his mother does. Not by any means. Although, his hair is something that makes her particularly proud of him, and Marco would lie if he said it doesn’t make him feel quite proud himself, but it isn’t so fragile that he has to watch every little thing he does with it, although his mother disagrees. But as long as he doesn’t cut it it’s nothing to worry about, and he would never even dream of cutting it; partially because he likes it the way it is, and partially because it would be dreadfully selfish of him to do so.

According to his mother, when he had been a child people had tried to cut it. The result wasn’t terrible; the part of the hair that had been cut simply turned a darker shade of brown and lost its powers, thus it gave him the fringe he has today, one he has kept. Those particular wisps of hair now grow at the same pace that his mother’s hair does, while his magical hair still grows at such a slow pace one would believe it has stopped growing entirely. Seventeen - eighteen, soon - years and his hair merely reaches halfway down his shoulder blades. In comparison to the growing pace of normal hair, Marco finds that rather remarkable.

Unconsciously Marco twirls tufts of his fringe around his fingers as he keeps on staring outside, wondering what it looks like outside the walls of stone that are hiding him. The same thing he has been wondering about since adolescence when he first started thinking beyond this small world he grew up in. It’s been five years since then, and his skin is crawling with the restlessness that has gathered within him, the fact of _not knowing_ making him curious out of his mind. The only reason he’s not gone out of his mind yet is because he clings to the hope that now that he’s turning eighteen, his mother might finally take him outside. She has never explicitly told him this might happen, but Marco hopes. Dear God, he hopes.

Speaking of his mother, Hitch should be returning home soon. She’s been gone for the entirety of the day, like she always is due to work. Marco is curious but all he knows is that she is a saleswoman and she always says that he needn’t know more details; it’s as simple as it sounds.

Marco still wishes he could know more, not only of his mother’s line of work; he wants to know more of _everything_. The few books his mother has occasionally brought him over the years have taught him many things, but it still feels like he knows so little. He knows there is so much left unexplained.

Pascal crawls over Marco’s hand that is resting on the window sill, interrupting his daydreaming, then stops to stare at him, as unimpressed as ever.

Marco smiles at the chameleon who seems to acknowledge it only by turning away, crawling back to Marco’s hand and settles on top of it. One could call Pascal his secret pet, although Pascal behaves as though it’s the opposite. One day Marco had simply found the reptile in the flowers on the window sill, staring him down through his camouflage. Marco had carefully sat down on the window sill, slinging his legs over to the outer edge of it and accompanied the lizard. After a while of Marco looking through his books, hoping to get some insight as to what kind of reptile it actually was, the chameleon had finally emerged from his hiding place. Crawling into Marco’s palm and up his arm he seemed to have accepted Marco’s scent as safe. After that the chameleon simply never left, and so after three days of company Marco decided to name him. He comes and goes; during the day he sometimes disappears for a couple of hours, probably in search of food, but he always comes back.  
Now the chameleon sits on his arm and looks at him with obvious distaste, and Marco can’t help but laugh. He lifts his arm closer to his face.

“What is it, Pascal?”

The chameleon doesn’t answer-- _obviously--_ but he genuinely looks at Marco as if he wouldn’t even if he could. Another gust of wind hits Marco in the face and he shivers. That’s when he notices he is actually quite cold and when he looks outside again the sun has gone down completely.

He shudders again and lowers his arm-- cold and covered in goosebumps-- to let Pascal off. He has to give the reptile a little push for him to crawl off so Marco can stand up. He crosses his room to his bed, fishing out a green blanket from the pile of pillows and throws it over his shoulders like a cloak. He starts making his way back to the window and as if on queue there is the familiar call from his mother.

“Marco, I’m back!”

Marco hurries to the hook next to the window to get the rope and drops his blanket in his haste. It gets stuck around his feet and he stumbles as he moves toward the pole in the middle of the circular room.

“Marco,” his mother singsongs. “I’m not getting any younger down here!”

“S-sorry Mother, coming,” he calls as he straightens up and gathers the rope in his arms. He ties it around the pole before getting up on the window sill all tangled up in rope. He throws the rope, looping it around the hook hanging from the roof, then lowers it out the window until there’s enough for his mother to safely hoist herself up. When Marco sees that she’s ready he starts pulling quickly with as much strength he can muster-- his mother is not a patient woman.

As he tugs the rope his eyes search the window sill frantically for Pascal but the intelligent animal has already gone and hidden, following the usual drill.

His mother’s ash blonde hair appears first before the rest of her smiling self finds itself in the window. Her eyes lock with Marco’s, who is now sweating and panting, and her smile widens. She steps casually through the window and down to Marco, putting her hands on each of his cheeks and caresses his freckled skin with her thumbs.

“Ah, my baby boy,” she coos and her right hand slips back to run her fingers through his ponytail, gently tugging the band with her and letting his hair out. “You must be building some real muscle by now, I can’t believe you do that every day without failing. It must tire you out so.” 

Still panting Marco shrugs, smiling through his fatigue.

“It’s okay,” he says and his mother steps back, hands slipping down his neck and back to her sides.

“Then I don’t know why it takes you so long,” she chirps and Marco’s face falls. She laughs and adds, “I’m just teasing you, darling, loosen up a bit.”

Marco manages a forced laugh to go with his mother’s. He’s never really learnt how to handle her teasing and every time she does tease him he wounds up feeling uncomfortable for doing whatever she teased him about, and then stupid for believing she had been serious. It leaves him feeling self-conscious.

His mother turns around and picks up the basket she left by the window and starts walking up the stairs toward the kitchen and her own bedroom. Marco looks after her and then glances toward the flowers in the window, catching a glimpse of Pascal staring at him.

Marco has been planning on bringing up the topic of venturing outside to his mother, as a gift for his eighteenth birthday. In fact, he had planned on talking about it with her _today_. He usually sits down with Pascal and talks to him, despite that the only reply he ever gets is Pascal looking back at him with his usual flat stare, sometimes mixing it up with a slight shift of some sort that Marco can’t read, if it even means anything. Not that he believes Pascal can actually understand him, but it’s nice to talk to someone. He’s extremely lonely, most of the time.

So now he stares, desperate, at Pascal for some sort of moral support but all he gets are those wide eyes locked on him. Still, it’s better than nothing, and Marco straightens his back and takes a deep breath.

“Okay. I’m gonna ask her. I can do it.”

He resolutely starts walking after his mother, his heart rate picking up from nervousness. As he enters the kitchen slash bedroom he’s met with the sight of his mother unpacking food.

At first he just stands there, staring at her, and it’s not until his mother gives him a weird look that he starts moving forward.

“Um, Mother,” he starts, smiling nervously when she looks at him. “I wanted to ask you about something.”

His mother nods, “Sure, flower, but first I need to finish this and then I need to freshen up a bit.”

By “freshen up” she means that she needs him to sing for her as she brushes his hair. This happens weekly, at most. His mother ages fairly quickly and his hair keeps her young. He doesn’t at all mind giving her the occasional health boost, he’s simply happy to keep her happy. It’s the most important thing to him.

That’s why Marco nods frantically, willing to do no nearly anything for her so she can listen properly. Now that she mentions it, he can see wrinkles starting to form in his mother’s face and the blonde of her hair is fading. She hates that. She especially hates the wrinkles. When they appear so does her bad mood and the bad mood is something Marco prefers to avoid.

Marco lingers awkwardly by the wall as he waits for her to finish unpacking the basket and as soon as he sees she’s finished he rushes to get her a chair and a brush. Lastly he gets himself a stool that he quickly sits down on, back to the chair.

He hears when his mother settles down behind him and makes herself comfortable.

“Your hair is a mess, Marco,” she chides and he can almost hear her nose wrinkling and her brows furrowing. “I’ve told you a million times, you need to take better care of it. It’s important that we preserve what is special.”

“Yes, Mother, I know,” Marco mumbles impatiently, having heard the same speech just as many times as she said.

She doesn’t say anything as she starts brushing his hair slowly, careful to untangle the knots. He takes that as his queue to start singing.

“ _Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine…_ ”

He wants to hurry up, patience running out, but he doesn’t wish to upset his mother before making such a huge request, so he keeps on singing slowly. It’s not hard in any way; the lyrics and notes are imprinted in his mind from all the years of having sung this song, every week. He doesn’t think he could miss a note if he tried.

“ _Bring back what once was mine…_ “

He rarely sings both verses, unless his mother specifically asks him to. Half the song is enough to give his mother what she needs.

Behind him, she takes a deep breath and lets it out in a satisfied sigh, letting go of his hair. Without even bothering to tie it up in order to keep it out of his face Marco eagerly turns on his stool, desperately wanting to get this over with.

“So Mother, I was thinking… er,” he starts, nervously wringing his clammy hands between his knees. His mother frowns down at them and immediately he stops, wiping them on his trousers. She leans back in her chair, crossing her legs.

“Spit it out, Marco,” she says, crossing her arms as well. Her eyebrow is raised and she’s starting to look more impatient by the second.

Swallowing, Marco forces himself to start talking.

“Well, my birthday is coming up, you know, and I’m turning eighteen.” His voice sounds too raspy for his liking, but he pushes himself to continue. “And I was thinking, maybe you could take me outside, right? I-I’ve seen these _beautiful_ floating lights in the sky every year on my birthday, and I just. Would like to see them for real? Closer up. I really wa--”

“Marco, we have talked about you venturing outside,” his mother says flatly, her voice almost bordering over to cold. That’s a bad sign. She stands up and brushes some imaginary dust from her dress as she resolutely turns on her heel toward the kitchen. “It’s too dangerous.”

Marco himself hastily stands up when she starts to walk away, and while he’d expected that answer he can’t help the panic and desperation rising.

“But Mother, it-- I’m going to be eighteen. This is important to m--”

“I’m sorry, dear,” she says, voice no longer cold as she halts her step and turns back to her son with a sweetly apologetic smile, the usual warmth back in her eyes. “I hate to disappoint you, I really do.” She slowly walks back to him, putting her hands on his sloping shoulders. “What you’re talking about are the stars, there are no floating lights.”

“N-no, Mother, you don’t understand,” Marco stammers, heart hammering in his chest. “These lights only show up on the evening of my birthday. _Only_ then. Stars shine all the time, they don’t float or move the way these do--”

His mother’s eyebrows furrow as her golden eyes pin him in place and Marco falters, feeling himself shrinking under her gaze and he knows he has lost. 

“Marco.” Her tone says it all, and yet, Marco doesn’t want to give up. “It is too. Dangerous. You won’t be able to handle yourself out there.”

“But I’ll have you!” he protests, trying desperately to stay positive, his breathing quickening because this cannot be happening. His mother can’t-- He can’t stay in this tower forever. He desperately ignores the note of finality in her voice. “You know how to survive out there, if anything happens _you’ll_ be there.”

“So you expect me to simply come to your rescue if you fall prey to bandits and thugs?” she shoots back. “Are you expecting me to have to take care of the both of us? Will it be my fault if you get in trouble then? You are putting that responsibility on _my_ shoulders? And even if I will be there, you want to go outside more than once, don’t you? I can’t cater to your every whim, Marco.”

Marco feels horrible. His gaze drops to the floor, eyes burning and his fists clenching. The guilt is crawling up his belly and into his throat like something tangible, making it hard to breathe. She’s right, of course; if he’s not capable of taking care of himself out there it will be his fault, and he can’t put the blame on her in advance. He can’t be that selfish as to put her in danger like that.

“You are not fit for the outside world,” his mother continues, as if she’s not noticing Marco’s sudden silence. “It’s _so_ dangerous, and so cruel. There is no mercy out there, and you are just… too naïve, too gullible. Fragile as a flower. You’re such easy prey out there.” Her tone has faded into the silky sweet voice she normally uses, and she lifts her hand and strokes his hair comfortingly. “You _know_ why we stay up here, do you really wish to just throw away everything I’ve done to keep you safe?”

Marco shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the floor as he realises with every word how selfish and inconsiderate his request had been.

“Oh, darling, what are you _thinking_?” his mother sighs, sounding so very dejected. “You’ll be eaten alive out there. You are clumsy and still so immature.” She continues to stroke his hair. “I’m just telling you this because I love you, baby.” After a moment, she huffs and stops stroking his hair, taking a step back.

“I suppose you are thinking, well, what does she know? I only nursed and raised and fed you.” Left unspoken in the air is the hint of how ungrateful he is, but he _knows_. She sighs and pauses, seeming to finally take notice of Marco’s demeanor and the heavy glum in the air. “Great. Now I’m the bad guy… I suppose I deserve to be left here alone.”

Marco immediately looks up and opens his mouth to object, because of _course_ she doesn’t deserve that. He wants to reassure her that he would never leave her like that, not for good; not for a long while at all, but before any words make it out she speaks up again.

“Listen, you won’t be able to protect yourself out there, and I might not be able to protect you either. Stay up here and I can. I can protect you up here, completely. I merely need you to never ask to leave this tower, to leave me, ever again.” At the end of the sentence, his mother’s voice has turned hard, and in the end it sounds like command more than anything. And Marco can only nod solemnly.

“I love you very much, darling,” she says, her tone back to apologetic and warm.

Marco tries a weak smile, suppressing the urge to just cry. It’s not her fault; she’s just doing her best to protect him, and feeling dejected and sad because her only son wants to leave her is completely justified. And yet, he can’t clamp down on the knot of disappointment growing in his throat.

Still, he replies, like always, “I love you more.”

His mother smiles.

“I love you most.”

 

***

 

Marco’s mother had prepared supper shortly after their argument. It had been a quiet dinner; the urge to cry had disappeared eventually, but Marco still simply couldn’t shake the disappointment. Afterwards his mother had left him alone to tend to other things, and he took the opportunity to lie in his bed and stare at the wall as he hugged a pillow to his chest. And that’s where he finds himself now, eyes following the patterns on the wall that were made by his own hand. By now he has covered nearly all of his walls with illustrations of everything from people in his books, to random patterns or plants that caught his interest. He draws everything he can think of, despite not having much reference for his drawings. Still, it’s one of the few things he’s proud of.

When the urge to cry had disappeared, he had been left feeling numb and tired. There’s an itch underneath his skin, a terrible but familiar restlessness. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He feels locked in, and with the knowledge that he can’t go outside, possibly ever, it’s worse than usual. He feels so stuck, the small space of where he’s allowed to go isn’t enough, he feels as though he’s about to crawl out of his own skin. It’s too much, it’s all too much and he can’t _breathe--_

He throws the pillow to the side and rises from the bed. He still doesn’t know what to do with himself, how to handle this _terrible_ feeling, but his legs carry him to the window and his arms manage to throw it open. The wind from the outside suddenly surrounds him, gets stuck in his hair, caresses his skin and leaves him with goosebumps, but it’s enough. For now, it’s enough. He can breathe now. 

As he slowly sits down and throws his legs over the window sill, he notices that he’s panting and his heart is racing. There’s sweat gathering by the hairline of his forehead, and with a shaky hand he runs his fingers through his short fringe. 

Pascal is staring at him from the flowers next to him. Marco extends his hand toward the animal, who, in turn, crawls into his palm. The weight of the chameleon in his hand is soothing, the fact that he’s not completely alone, after all. 

“Thank you for being here, Pascal,” Marco mumbles, and brings the hand up to his shoulder so the chameleon can climb onto it; he likes his seat on Marco’s shoulder. 

He has no idea what time it is, but it’s pitch black outside and the only thing he can see are the stars and half moon. He can hear more than that, though. He can hear the wind rustling through trees he can’t see; he can hear the calming whisper of the waterfall he can only see from the window in his mother’s room and he can hear the crickets chirping distantly, through the heavy sound of water. 

He tries to convince himself that this is enough. It’s been enough for almost eighteen years now; it can be enough for eighteen more. He’s fine here, and he shouldn’t want to go outside as badly as he does. His mother gives him everything he needs; he needn’t ask for more, nor should he. This is enough. 

It has to be. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to my wonderful beta [Vaneh](http://vanehwasreal.tumblr.com)!
> 
> I would also like to mention that the chapters will most likely NOT be posted regularly from now on; I am not that efficient, unfortunately (I'm not too mentally stable nowadays and it's hard for me to concentrate--I also don't get enough sleep so I am often too tired to write much). Sorry about that in advance. But I will do my best. Your comments fuel me, so thanks so much for that! You are ethereal angels.
> 
> I'm also going to mention that I am working on some fanart of Marco for this fic--I'm not an experienced artist at all, though!! I really do not draw well, I don't even have a tablet, I'm just borrowing a friend's. But I love drawing, and this is very exciting for me. I will post it on my [tumblr](http://getinthepool.tumblr.com) when it's finished, and probably put a link in future notes here.
> 
> Now, introducing Jean's character in this chapter which was fun as hell to write. Also Ymir, who I love to write as well. Enjoy!

“Come on, pretty boy, we ain’t got time to just stand around waitin' for better times. We gotta get to it, preferably _today_.”

Jean glares at Ymir, who simply stares back and crosses her arms. She raises her eyebrow and there’s a challenge hidden behind the gesture.

“I’m working on it,” Jean grumbles out between gritted teeth as he turns his gaze back to where he’s supposed to climb down. It’s an opening in the roof which they managed to make by cracking open the first part roof and lifting a piece of the decorated ceiling. Why _he_ must be the one to go down is beyond him; Annie is the tiniest of the three and definitely more flexible. She’d be able to do it well.

“Yeah? ‘Cause to me it just looks like you’re stalling,” Ymir drawls provokingly and shoves at Jean’s shoulder, making him stumble and glare daggers at the freckled girl. “It’s gonna be fuckin’ bright out in barely an hour, do you see your scrawny ass running from guards through the woods in the light of day _successfully_? I sure don’t. Annie?”

“He’s gonna get caught,” Annie offers flatly, _unhelpfully_ , her bored expression remaining exactly the same, but if Jean looks a little bit closer he can almost catch a hint of her looking even _more_ bored than usual.

Jean growls, fully aware that he’s the least athletic of the three and that he lacks in pretty much everything compared to Ymir and Annie.

“Why the fuck do I gotta be the one to be hoisted up and down like a rag doll to get the crown?” Jean complains, and yeah, okay, maybe he is stalling a little bit. “Why can’t Annie do it? She’s the tiniest of--”

A scathing look from said blonde makes him snap his mouth shut and nearly back up a step.

“Because those sticks of yours you call arms would slow us down a great deal, ya fuckin’ pansy,” Ymir shoots back, her patience obviously running very low by now. “Also this was your idea. Now get the _fuck_ down there before I push you.” Jean doesn’t doubt for a second that she would.

“Fine, okay, I’m going.” He puts his hands up in surrender, trying to wipe his face clean from fear. “No need to get aggressive.”

Throwing a brief glance toward Annie he notes that she looks just as unfazed by the exchange as earlier, but Jean knows that she would push him down without warning if need be. He’s not safe with any of them.

Jean double checks the harness he’s wearing before he kneels down by the piece of wood. He glances up toward the girls when they pick up their end of the rope. 

Ymir meets his hesitant gaze with her sure one.

“We hoist you down, you get the crown, we hoist you up and then we run like hell,” she says and pins him with a hard look. “Should we be seen by the guards we split up when we reach the forest and meet back at the Titan as soon as we’re all safe. You got it?” She gives Annie a sidelong glance too.

“Yes,” Annie affirms with a nod while Jean gulps. “Do you know how to find your way there?”

Ymir frowns and shrugs.

“I’ll find it.”

“Yeah,” Jean murmurs, hands shaking as he starts to gingerly lift the square wood piece. They had made sure it would be securely detached the day before. “Okay, get me down now.”

Annie and Ymir doesn’t need to be told twice; as soon as he scoots far out enough to grab onto the edge of the ceiling they start hoisting him down. The first fifteen feet he struggles to even out his balance, grabbing a hold of the rope above him, effectively managing to stop his highly unnerving swaying.

He scans the room and when he sees the amount of guards in that one room his stomach jumps into his throat and his heartbeat rises to about 200 miles per hour. The sound of his blood rushing is deafening. Trying to calm his breathing and keep himself from showering the nearby guards in his sweat, he memorizes the general locations of where the guards are stationed. Annie was right; all of them are standing with their backs to the crown. Unbelievable.

Soon enough he’s been lowered far enough to grab the crown but in order to do that he needs to disturb his balance again. He reaches as far as he can without letting go of the rope, but to no avail. The opening wasn’t directly above the crown, after all. He knows he has to figure something out quickly; the longer he simply stays here the closer he gets to the inevitable moment when one of the guards happens to glance this way and he will be dead in no time.

He starts to carefully sway himself back and forth, and after about ten seconds of swaying he gets close enough to grab the stupid crown. However, as he does so he accidentally pushes the pillow it was lying on to the ground. In his panic that quickly builds up he violently tugs at the rope to indicate that he is done, but this in turn results in him losing his balance again. He’s starting to get hoisted up to his relief, but as he desperately tries to get himself upright he kicks out and hits something - hard. Seconds later there is a loud crash, and Jean scrambles to start climbing up the rope himself because Annie and Ymir just aren’t _quick enough--_

In a second chaos erupts in the entire room, guards shouting and _his legs are being pulled--_

Ymir and Annie finally seem to get the gravity of the situation and start pulling harder and quicker and Jean manages to kick the hands off of him. He dares a look down when he is close enough to the ceiling and doesn’t realise what a grave mistake it is until it’s too late. They have all seen his face now. Before he wrings his face away he catches a glance of the pedestal the crown had been lying on, which is now lying on the floor. At least that answers the question of what he had kicked.

Before he knows it he is harshly pulled up onto the rooftop and barely has time to kick off the harness and hear Ymir hiss, “You _fucking_ imbecile.” before they are running - for their fucking lives.

“I got the crown, didn’t I,” Jean hisses back as they jump from rooftop to rooftop, at the same time trying to shove the crown into the satchel by his hip.

“But at what cost,” he hears Annie mutter, not out of breath in the slightest. Jean glares.

Adrenaline is pumping through his veins and he can distinctly feel his hands still shaking as he finally manages to close the satchel.

They don’t exchange any more words until they have reached the forest, and the only words that are uttered then is Jean’s reminder to split up. And they do. Jean with the satchel over his shoulder. Jean, whose face is the one that the guards saw. Admittedly, both Annie and Ymir are already wanted by the kingdom but _not_ for stealing the lost Prince’s fucking crown. Being wanted isn’t anything new to Jean either, but this is by far the worst crime he’s ever committed. This _will_ have him hanged should he be caught.

This realisation is enough for Jean to speed up even more in his sprint through the woods, which, to his displeasure, is rapidly thinning out. There is no road nearby and he doesn’t recognise any landmarks-- this is a good thing. What is _less_ of a good thing, however, is the sun slowly rising, starting to cast light on Jean’s by now well-known face.  
He needs to find shelter; somewhere to hide. He’s not far enough from the castle yet.

As if to prove his point, he hears hooves thundering from not too far behind him. Looking around, but not slowing down, Jean tries to find somewhere he can temporarily hide until they have passed. 

The louder the clap of hooves gets the more stressed he becomes and in the end he can’t think of anything better than to find the next good tree and climb it. So he does just that.

He can’t say he does it smoothly but had it not been for the adrenaline he probably wouldn’t have been able to heave himself up at all. When he’s reached the first branch he’s got enough leverage to climb fairly quickly. It’s not until he’s about thirty feet up that he hears the group of horses pass him by, not slowing down in the slightest. He waits until they have passed and he can barely hear them anymore, then starts climbing down, quickly. As long as they’re still in the forest searching he won’t be safe, unless he finds the perfect hiding spot where he can wait until they have disappeared so he can meet up with the others at the Snuggly Titan.

By the time he’s reached the last branch he’s so stressed out he impulsively chooses to jump the last six feet. A dumb choice, he realises when he lands and nearly topples to the ground from the impact. He barely manages to stay on his feet-- the only reason he succeeds is because he stumbles headfirst into a giant ass rock. 

A guttural groan crawls its way up his throat and fades into a whine as it slips past his lips. He’ll definitely have a bump on his head tomorrow.

When he opens his eyes and tries to push himself upright he finds himself too dizzy to stand without something to hold him up. He shakes his head and, using the rock as a crutch, starts moving along the stone toward a mossy wall of vines and weeds leading to another big rock. By the time he’s reached the far end of this wall he should have his brain cells back in place and will hopefully be able to run should the circumstance require it, right?

Shit, Ymir would laugh her ass off if she saw him now, probably call him ten different synonyms of weakling. Jaeger would definitely join in. He can understand how it may seem like it, but he is no _weakling_. He grumbles to himself, determined to not ever show himself like this in front of her or Eren. Or anyone, for that matter. God.

Being busy keeping an eye out for danger he could never have predicted that the weed wall isn’t a wall at all-- something he finds out by suddenly finding himself falling freely, barely managing to catch himself with his hands before he slams his shoulder to the ground. He groans openly and loudly as he thinks that today is _really_ not his day.

He rolls onto his back, taking deep breaths to get his shit together before preparing to pick himself up again. That’s when he notes that it is nearly pitch black around him. He pushes himself up to a sitting position and stares down at his feet somehow disappearing under what he had believed to be another mossy rock. He stares for five more seconds before snatching his feet back from underneath all the evil shrubbery. He scoots backward slightly and studies the foliage of weeds and vines hanging like a curtain from a rock above him. 

He looks around quickly and notes that he is in a cave. A very well hidden cave that is also very dark-- but a good hiding place nonetheless.

Jean scrambles to his feet and adjusts the satchel. He brushes the dirt and leaves off his clothes and tries to see further into the cave, with no success. Still, he squints for a couple of moments longer and listens carefully for any hint of a dangerous animal possibly sleeping. When he hears nothing but the normal sounds of a forest he starts moving deeper into the cave. What starts out as grass underneath his feet turns into gravel after a few steps, and the sound nearly has him jumping out of his own skin.

Maybe a God really does exist and has decided to start punishing him for his sins all in one go, because he quickly realises his torment is not over when he shoves his right foot straight into a rock, one that doesn’t even _slightly_ budge, and falls face forward in the dark. The first body part that actually hits something is his shin; it scrapes against a particularly sharp part of the rock and actually manages to tear his skin open, digging deep. The sudden pain elicits a sharp cry ripping through his throat before the rest of him tumbles to the ground. Tears gather in the corner of his eyes and all he can hear is his own rasping breaths and the hissing as he breathes out through his teeth, the sounds bouncing from wall to wall.

“F-fuck, that hurts,” he whimpers and sniffles, trying to breathe through the pain properly.

He’s managed to pull himself up into a sitting position to examine the damage but quickly realises it’s no use if he can’t see anything. When he looks up and blinks he can see light trickle in from somewhere, possibly an exit, and forces himself to stand up and keep going. With each step the wound sort of dulls into a throbbing ache that only stings when the cloth of his trousers gets stuck in it. He can feel warm blood trickle further down his leg as he walks, and he dreads seeing the state of his pants. 

Eventually he is met with another curtain of green but it is not nearly as dense as the one from before. He shoves it aside and stumbles out of the cave (tunnel?), blinking as his eyes adjust to the sunlight. The first thing he does is to flop down on the nearest patch of grass and examine his leg. It’s not too bad, although the wound stretching up along his shin is quite deep. Still bleeding. He looks up and searches for any kind of water source, but is interrupted by the bewildering sight of a huge ass tower looming in front of him.

“What the hell,” he mutters, frowning toward the building and wondering if anyone actually lives there. He figures it to be very unlikely because of the moss, vines and weeds climbing up the great tower, covering the lower part almost completely. From what he can see, the possibility of an accessible entrance seems highly unlikely, so how would anyone even get in? And who in their right mind would actually want to live here?

Of course, no answers are provided for his silent questions and honestly, he can’t bring himself to care right now. He’s caught sight of a waterfall flowing steadily down the mountains behind the tower and limps toward the stream connected to it.

He sits down by the water, pulls off his boot and works up the leg of his trousers. He carefully steps into the stream with his right foot and watches the blood being washed away by the steady flow of water. 

He scrubs the skin around the wound, making sure all the blood and dirt is washed away, then sits down by the water, grabbing a piece of cloth from his satchel. He rips it in two pieces, placing one of them on top of the wound and the other one he uses to tie around it to keep it there. He grits his teeth and hisses at the stabs of pain when he tightens the knot, but holds on until he’s done. He breathes out a sigh as he takes a look at his trouser leg. Nevermind the hole in it, that’s no problem for now, but there’s a _lot_ of blood. Jean wouldn’t say that his standards are very high; he’s a thief after all, but even he can admit that clothing covered in blood is quite disgusting.

So as quickly as possible he pulls off his slacks and scrubs vigorously at the spots of blood in the water until they’ve faded as much as possible. He pulls the ruined piece of clothing back on and looks around, even though he knows that he’s alone.

Eventually, when he’s put his boots back on, he looks back up toward the tower, curiosity getting the better of him. What would be a better hiding place than this? It’s completely hidden; one can’t even see it’s here from the outside. He moves carefully toward the base of the tower and studies the brick building closely. He pokes and prods at weeds and vines and flowers as he makes his way around it, trying to find a potential way in that has been hidden. When he’s made it halfway around the tower he’s nearly given up on the hopes that there might be a way in, but right that second he catches the sight of bricks that are very uneven. He moves vines to the side and rips them off when they seem to be immovable, and finds that there is a whole part there that is simply covered up with rocks. It’s not even bricks, just rocks.

At first he just stares and contemplates whether he should try to get inside or if he simply try to get to the Titan now. However, a glance down at the satchel and his right leg answers the question for him. Without any hesitation he starts pulling rock after rock out from their respective position, ripping all of them carelessly to the ground, determined to get inside the tower.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am back!! told you i wouldn't be able to keep up any regularity. 8)
> 
> this chapter is strictly unbeta'd and so you can probably not expect it to look as good as the previous ones, unfortunately. however, if you find any misspellings or anything of the like you're free to let me now! i'd be grateful.
> 
> i apologise in advance if this chapter is a bore and not as eventful like the other two—it consists mostly of Marco's inner monologue—but it was needed for the plot and i can assure you the next chapter picks it up a notch.
> 
> last thing i'm gonna mention is the [fanart of Rapunzel!Marco](http://http://getinthepool.tumblr.com/post/130834528588/i-couldnt-help-but-draw-marco-from-my-tangled-au) i finished the other day. like i mentioned earlier i am not an experienced artist at all and i'm aware of how it looks so keep that in mind orz
> 
> now prepare for Jean and Marco's first meeting B) enjoy!

The following morning Marco gets woken up early by his mother shaking him gently. He blinks blearily up at her. She is saying something but Marco’s brain hasn’t quite caught up with waking up just yet; he only keeps blinking, confused and tired until he can finally distinguish his mother’s words.

“—need you to get me down,” is everything he catches before she stops talking, looking at him expectantly.

“What?” he rasps, the word tumbling out automatically.

His mother sighs and puts her hand on her hip.

“Aren’t you listening to me? _I said,_ ” she says, louder and clearer than before, putting in extra space after every word. “I am leaving early today so I need you to lower me down. Now.”

“Oh!” Finally understanding what his mother is talking about, he’s wide awake in a second.

He scrambles out of bed when his mother steps back, allowing him to shuffle across the room to collect the rope. He knows better than to first change from his pyjamas when his mother is waiting. His body feels heavy when he finally loops the rope around the hook, having only slept for a few hours at most. He barely notices that it’s still dark outside.

He steps down from the window sill to let his mother up. She puts a gentle hand on the top of his head, stroking his hair twice as she walks by.

“Don’t forget to brush your hair, flower,” she reminds him as she loops rope around her hand, creating a large hoop for her to stand in, smiling at him. “I’ll only be gone for a couple of hours. You can get me down now.”

Marco nods as he tightens his grip on the rope, muscles tensing as his mother steps out the window.

He starts lowering her down bit by bit, rope slipping slowly through his closed fists. Right when he’d started doing this a few years ago the occasional scraping of the rope had left the skin of his palms sensitive and with blisters as a result of doing the same action nearly every day. Some days the pain had been quite bad when he either hoisted her up or let her down, rope breaking the blisters. Sometimes he’d accidentally failed to hold the rope tight enough and it had slipped through his palms with remarkable speed, effectively burning patches of skin before he’d gotten a good grip on the rope again. His mother had made sure to scold him for his clumsiness but had elected to stay home a couple of days when she’d seen the state of his hands, with the intention of letting them heal and helping them do so.

Other than those occasional burn marks his mother hadn’t seem to have noticed the blisters and the angry red colour of his palms, and he hadn’t mentioned it. When the skin of his palms finally had gotten to heal completely and became free of blisters, which had been a quite slow process, he found the skin of his fingers and the inside of his knuckles tougher and much harder to hurt. Gradually, using the rope got easier, and by now his hands are calloused and parts of skin hardened so he doesn’t get hurt as easily any longer. He’s also gotten learned the safest ways to use the rope without it harming anything.

Marco knows when his mother has reached the ground by the sudden lack of weight, and with that indication he drops the rope to the floor and goes to the window, looking down at his mother through the darkness, only a small gaslight casting light on her.

“I’ll see you in a bit, darling,” she calls up to him, waving as she starts walking away.

Marco waves back with a smile, slowly letting himself sit down on the window sill, relaxing. He watches his mother’s silhouette walk toward the tunnel hidden behind the drapery of vines. He loses sight of her fairly soon and he sighs.

“I’ll be here,” he mumbles faintly, wrapping his arms around himself. The memory of last night finds him and the disappointment makes itself known, settling low in his belly.

He only sits unmoving on the window sill for a little while, until he concludes that he’s only feeling sorry for himself and should stop. He won’t be able to fall back asleep now, and the sun will rise soon. He might as well do something productive; feeling sorry for himself won’t get him anywhere. His mother’s told him that more than once.

With that thought in mind, Marco stands and closes the window to shut out the chill, knowing Pascal is somewhere in here already, and heads straight for his brushes and colour palettes. With one look at his tools he notes that he’s almost out of colours. He makes a mental note to bring it up with his mother so she can bring him more. His gaze travels from his different colour options, finding that blue is the one he has the most of. Ultimately, he opts for bringing the pots of blue, yellow, brown, green and pink and gathers them in his arms. With three brushes in his mouth and an armful of colour palettes and pots he saunters over to the opposite wall. He stops and looks up, eyes searching for a possible empty space somewhere on the wall, frowning when he finds nothing. He puts his equipment down on his bed and walks over to the fireplace, gaze roaming over the wall with a thoughtful look.

His eyes stop at a place above the fireplace where a big painting of strange patterns stands, halfway hidden behind curtains.

He drags a chair over to the big fireplace and puts the equipment on the stone encasing the fireplace, then climbs up himself. He moves the painting to the side, careful not to push it to the floor, finding his suspicions whether it was empty here correct. He starts off sitting down, brush sweeping over the wall and it’s like his hand moves on its own. He’s not entirely paying attention as to _what_ he’s painting, he simply lets himself paint freely, letting it become what it becomes. 

When he actually does look over his work properly he’s standing, and not surprised to find a blue night sky and square, yellow lights littering the blue painted wall. Still, he sighs and puts the brush down, rubbing his right wrist absently. _Great work getting your mind on other things,_ he thinks bitterly, but when he looks up at his work again the bitterness evaporates—left is the disappointment and self-pity.

After a short while of regarding the painting he picks up a new brush with another colour and starts painting again. Brown for his hair, pink for his clothes, green for the trees. He’s adding nature and himself into the picture, a faceless version of himself watching the lights. He swallows and bends down for some yellow, putting in a few careful strokes on his hair.

Taking a step back, careful not to accidentally step over the edge of the fireplace, he takes in his work. He smiles, albeit weakly. The word ‘bittersweet’ comes to mind as he watches a painted version of himself living _his_ dream. _Bittersweet_. 

With one last look at the wall he moves to push the painting back where it was, but a strange, unfamiliar sound halts him in his actions. He can’t make out what it is, but he goes rigid and almost stops breathing to hear what it is. It’s… scraping. Coming from his mother’s room.

“Mother?” he calls carefully, even though his every instinct tell him it’s _not_ his mother.

Despite the fear surging through him when there’s no reply him he swiftly and quietly hops down from the fireplace. Without pause he half-jogs up the stairs and peers into his mother’s room, finding it empty so far, before he slips inside. No place in the tower but the kitchen holds objects that can potentially be used as weapons, so he heads over to it, grabbing the nearest object—a frying pan—when the sound comes again, this time more clear and obviously from underneath the _floor_. 

With the frying pan pointed toward where the sound comes from he starts moving toward doorway, never turning his back to the sound. It’s grown more insistent, and when a movement comes from one of the slates in the floor Marco can finally identify the sound as something trying to lift the stone. He ducks behind the wall right before he hears the piece of stone being lifted, then a sound he can identify as a mixture between a sigh and a groan following. A _human_ sigh and groan.

Marco’s heart is beating so hard he almost can’t hear anything going on on the other side of the wall, and he’s afraid to even breathe, scared of making the slightest sound. His hands holding the frying pan to his chest are shaking and so are his knees. But he remains calm—at least as calm as he can be with a _stranger having just popped up from a hole in the floor._

Every word his mother ever said about humans, every warning she ever worded about them being selfish and dangerous and wouldn’t hesitate before harming him passes through his head and he grips the frying pan tighter, knuckles turning white. He tries to breathe slowly as he returns his focus to the stranger behind the wall, who currently is breathing heavily by the sound of it.

There’s a shuffling sound before he hears, “Fuckin’ finally… “

Marco nearly flinches at the curse, having only read them in some of his books and heard them slip past his mother’s lips on rare occasions—and not good ones.

Marco can’t just stand here and wait for something to happen––or more like, wait for the burglar to find him and… kill him? Hurt him? Marco honestly doesn’t know what this burglar will do, but if he stands here hiding he loses advantage with every passing second.

So he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment as he wills himself to stop shaking, and then tenses before he steps away from the wall. Raising his arms with the frying pan, holding it above his shoulder, readying himself to swing if need be. Without letting himself hesitate he steps into the doorway, eyes instantly locking on the slim figure in the room, standing with his back to Marco, looking around.

Marco only has a second before the figure turns around and spots Marco. Marco expects him to attack him or something of the like, but to his surprise all the other person does is jump and squawk out a, “ _Whaaat the ffuck—_ ”

This time Marco can’t help but flinch at the sudden loud noise, automatically clutching his frying pan tighter.

“Could you— Can you _say something_ next time instead of just _standing_ there staring, it’s creepy as shit,” the other cries, voice cracking into a high pitched tone halfway through the sentence. His eyes flick nervously to the frying pan Marco is clutching over his shoulder and then he gulps. “And w-what’s with the fucking frying pan?”

Marco is shocked. This is nothing like his mother had warned him, and he has no clue how to handle this situation after having been prepared for meeting a filthy burglar with a knife. This is a young man, looking near Marco’s age, with flickering eyes and clean, nice hair.

When Marco doesn’t answer, actually unable to find words and the ability to use his voice, the burglar looks even more nervous and uncomfortable. He raises his hands as he takes a step toward Marco.

“Look, j-just put down the goddamn frying pan, alright?” he says, slowly taking step after step toward Marco. When he’s close enough he starts to reach for the frying pan, but his other hand is moving to grip something that looks much like a knife on his belt. “We can talk, yeah? I can explain—”

Marco swings, finally out of his shock and doing the first thing he knows how to when he acknowledges the hands reaching for his only means of defending himself. The sound of the frying pan hitting something hard bounces off the walls, followed by a heavy thump. Marco, having closed his eyes as he swung, carefully opens them and takes in the scene in front of him—the burglar sprawled on the floor, face-down and unmoving and the frying pan still in Marco’s shaking hands. The muscles in his arms go lax without his permission and he drops it, next to burglar, narrowly missing hitting him in the head again. 

“Oh my God,” Marco whispers, staring at the unfamiliar human being on the floor. He’d actually managed to knock him out.

Falling to his knees, Marco hesitantly and carefully reaches for the boy’s head, prodding at it to see if he’s bleeding, if he’d actually cracked his skull open. When he’s made sure that the stranger isn't bleeding he turns the him onto his back, checking if he’s breathing by holding his hand above his open mouth. When he’s concluded that the stranger is, in fact, alive he frantically looks around, gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out what to do.

Shoving the man out the window is not an option for various reasons, and the main one is that it would probably harm him badly, if not kill him, and Marco is not up for killing, or harming, anyone— _unless it is absolutely necessary_ , Marco admits, sheepish, because the fact still remains that there is a man lying unconscious on the floor as a result of Marco hitting him in the head with kitchen equipment.

Running a hand down his face Marco takes a deep breath, holds it for a couple of seconds before letting it out and pushing himself into action. 

First, he plucks out the knife he’s spotted in the stranger’s belt, including the sheath, which he opts to put in his own pocket of his trousers for now. After he’s made sure the are no more hidden weapons on the burglar, he lifts his torso from behind and hooks his arms under the man’s armpits, starting to back out the bedroom, pulling the limp body after him. He casts a glance over his shoulder before he starts backing down the stairs slowly, very careful not to let the body slip from his hold. He’s got no idea how much time he has before the man will wake up, but a look at the clock on the wall reveals that his mother won’t be home for at least one and a half hour. That should give him enough time to figure this out, because the thought of his mother returning home and finding him with a stranger here, conscious or not, leaves an uncomfortable feeling of anxiety in his chest.

When he’s safely reached the bottom of the stairs Marco stops, breathing heavily and heart thumping unceremoniously hard against his ribcage. If the man wakes up now he might, probably, be angry about Marco knocking him out and God knows what he’ll do then. The scenarios building up in Marco’s head are far from pleasant.

Without letting up the hold he’s got on the burglar Marco looks around, eyes skimming the room for the quickest solution that will also be fairly safe. His eyes come to a stop when they reach the rope left to lie haphazardly all over the floor. He wrings his head around to the fireplace and stares at the chair, and immediately he’s got his solution. Slowly and probably more careful than necessary he lowers the body in his arms to the floor, but just before he turns to get the chair and the rope he catches sight of a satchel by the stranger’s hip. He hadn’t noticed it before, but he imagines it could contain… really, whatever dangerous objects there are. He should probably prioritise getting that out of the stranger’s reach.

With rushed movements and constant stressed glances at the stranger’s face Marco manages to untangle him from the satchel, anxiously looking around for a place to hide it. As he stands up from kneeling though, he realises too late that he’s held the satchel upside down from how the content suddenly falls out.

The automatic reaction is to back up immediately, in case the satchel should contain any sharp weapons or objects. Nothing of the sort is what hits the floor, though. The object bounces and with each bounce it leaves a light clicking sound on the stone floor which indicates that it’s made out of some sort of metal. 

Marco watches warily as the circular, shiny object rolls a few feet and then tips over, which ultimately is what stops it from moving any more. Only then he approaches it and gingerly picks it up, studying it intensely. There are shiny rocks littering the piece of metal, covering the whole exterior of the circle, some of them Marco can identify as diamond and ruby. Whether it’s real diamond and ruby he can’t tell. Although, why would someone like this burglar carry something that rare around, and more importantly, how would he get his hands on it? Marco twists and turns the object in his hands, completely mesmerised by the beautiful object, lifting it up closer to the light only to have the light reflected into his eyes.

He blinks and thinks he should have seen that one coming, but proceeds to study what he’s got in his hands. The actual metal is of a golden colour, almost like the one Marco’s hair glows with when he sings. Even after spending long moments studying the jewelry-covered metal piece he cannot fathom what it is used for. Its edges are definitely not sharp enough to be used as a weapon and besides, it’s a bit too fancy to be used as such, Marco muses.

Suddenly, Marco is broken out of his trance of fascination by remembering the reason he’s even holding it, and quickly stuffs it back into the satchel which he puts in his secret, disused hiding place under one of the stair’s floorboards. He’s not got anything else in there, there’s not exactly much for him to hide, but it’s somewhere where anyone’s unlikely to look and that’s always good to have for times like these.

When he’s put the board back properly he proceeds to undergo with his initial plan to tie the stranger up in the chair. It’s perfect when he wakes up; then Marco can question him, as well.

Ties are something he’s good with, so there’s no problem tying up the stranger’s wrists, ankles and torso to the chair even without any ends to the rope.When he’s finished the man is slumped in the chair, head hanging forward in what looks like a massively uncomfortable angle, but when Marco tries to straighten it up a bit it only falls forward again and so he decides not to bother with it. He’s not very fond of touching the burglar more than necessary.

Quickly Marco stalks back into his mother’s room and makes sure to put the slate back where it was, covering the hole in the floor previously unknown to Marco. His heart is still thundering in his chest but he feels more calm now that the stranger is properly tied up and Marco is in complete control. Having something the man probably holds dear gives him a clear advantage, and his belly tingles a bit from excitement and pride over his work.

Coming back to his own room, Marco finds Pascal perched on the stranger’s slumped shoulders, looking as unimpressed as ever.

Marco chuckles, albeit a bit nervously, warily eyeing the still unconscious stranger.

“Aw, Pascal, can’t you be a _little_ impressed at least?” he pouts at the chameleon, who only stares back, unmoving. Marco shakes his head, adding in a slight murmur, “At least be careful over there.”

He should probably attempt to wake the stranger, but his attention is turned elsewhere, namely the satchel again. He just wants to look at it again; it was so beautiful. Never had Marco seen an object so enthralling in his life—never but in books and on paintings. Lifting the board he takes out the satchel, carefully pulling the object out. It’s frustrating not knowing what it is; not having a name for it.

Marco slowly moves toward the mirror in his room, silently mulling over the different ways one might use it. Around the neck…? Like a necklace but harder, and stiffer and… definitely not a necklace. And it’s too stiff to pry it open so you can get it around your neck. It’s too big to wear anywhere on your arm, and it has got to be immensely uncomfortable to wear it around your thigh. But that option seems really unlikely and frankly quite stupid. It _is_ quite the same size as a head would be, though. 

Turning to look into the mirror Marco lifts the object up and lowers it onto his head. Admittedly, it is too small to pull down to the neck this way, so the necklace option is scratched for the third time. On his head it looks peculiar, but strangely good. Marco has always been a fan of decorations in his hair, but he can’t really do much about that. His mother has tucked flowers once or twice behind his ears, but that’s about it. While it looks strangely good on his head, it looks more excessive than anything else. It’s too beautiful for his head, his face, his freckles and his general appearance. His mother might look better with it on her head—not that he will show it to her—but even though, he’s still not entirely convinced this is what it’s used for. Maybe it’s merely room decoration. In any case, it undoubtedly looks valuable. So valuable it feels wrong for Marco to be even touching it.

With spread fingers he picks it off his head with his fingertips and puts it back in the satchel, which he in turn puts back where he first hid it.

Then he turns to the stranger on the chair in the middle of his room, frowns slightly and for the first time actually studies the other male. He’s quite pale, and his hair is strangely toned with both a brown and a blonde colour. It’s also distinctly cut at different lengths, the under part of his hair nearly shaved off entirely and the top, blonde part long enough to almost reach his eyes when it falls over his forehead. It’s probably the strangest haircut Marco has ever seen, but on the other hand he’s only seen the ones that are in his books, his mother’s and his own. Perhaps among the outside world people these strange hairstyles are normal.

Marco unconsciously narrows his eyes the longer he studies the stranger, and doesn’t understand why he’s got a hard time ripping his eyes away from his long limbs, forearms exposed by the rolled up sleeves, where veins are indistinctly stretching underneath the skin, reaching bony hands belonging slender fingers with blunt—bitten down?—nails. Marco can’t for the life of him fathom why he finds himself staring at the stranger’s hands, hanging limply over the chair’s armrests, or why he wonders if his hair is as soft as it looks, and how the short fuzz would feel under his fingers. Despite curiosity, Marco would never dare to try and find out. He shouldn’t be drawn to this _burglar_ in the first place.

Marco swallows when he finds his mouth having gone quite dry, and flicks his gaze to Pascal, still on the stranger’s shoulders. He’s looking at Marco so intently it feels as though he’s staring into his soul, and even though it is not _possible_ —he continuously has to remind himself of this—a chameleon can see Marco’s internal struggle, he still squirms slightly under the judgemental gaze.

“Stop throwing shade, Pascal, you’re going to die early with all that negativity,” Marco points out as he straightens his back, determined to not come off as unsure right now. “Now, what do we do with him?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sincerely sorry for the delay of this chapter!! truth is, i have been feeling immensely self-conscious about my writing since the last chapter i posted to the point that i kind of just ignored my fic and avoided thinking about it and deliberately didn't write anything for a while—it was that bad. but one school night far too late i decided to write the damn chapter and so i did!
> 
> i'm still not feeling good about it, and again this is unbeta'd so there might be misspellings and all that jazz. you're free to let me know if you find anything. i'll be going away to Egypt this tuesday and i hope to get more writing done there.
> 
> in any case, i hope this chapter makes up for it a little bit, and since i am a trainwreck who has absolutely nothing in order the POV of this chapter changes somewhere in the middle. i want to take the time to thank you all for your feedback and kudos, too! it makes me so very happy and it spurs me on quite a bit. you're angels i love you all
> 
> thank you for reading and enjoy!

_There had been a long set of stairs made of uneven stone and it had really seemed ancient as he had climbed them, a hand flat against the wall during the whole climb. It had been pitch black and he’d had to tread carefully._

_He’d known when he had reached the top by the way he suddenly slammed the top of his head into a hard and resolute ceiling and how he’d nearly lost his balance right then. He’d ended up crouching in the stairs, hands grasping the steps in front of him and adrenaline making him tremble. He hadn’t waited for too long before he’d started sliding his hands over the rocks above him with a his face pulled into a frown and shallow breaths echoing loudly as they slipped past his lips. Obviously there had had to be an opening here; a piece of rock he could push up—right?_

_He’d had to press in different places for a while, and while some of the rocks moved they still wouldn’t budge. Eventually he’d found just the right rock to press at and what with how disused the entryway seemed it hadn’t been a surprise to him that he had to put a lot of power into the final push._

_Climbing up to his destination, he’d huffed out a relieved breath and a mumble. He’d first just sat on the floor waiting for the adrenaline to wear off and he’d barely registered how strangely lived-in this place was until he’d stood up and started examining his surroundings. It had been quiet though, and needless to say he’d almost had a heart attack when he turned around to see a young man with a determined look on his face and a frying pan in his hands. He’d been pretty sure his heart actually stopped for a few seconds, and the high-pitched squawk that had tumbled over his lips he will deny to his death. Automatically his right hand had flown to the knife in his belt._

_He’d tried calmly speaking to the boy, genuinely scared of how his expression showed nothing but determination and how he didn’t seem to react at all to the words spoken at him. The last thing he’d seen before everything turned black was the boy swinging the frying pan with everything he had._

… 

At first Jean barely registers the unpleasant feeling of a strange touch creeping along his neck, head and throat, however, when the feeling suddenly moves to his _face_ his eyes fly open and his mouth gapes around a loud gasp. There’s something— something _crawling on his face—_

His first reaction is to flinch back and knock the _thing_ the fuck away with his hand, but he finds he can’t move either his hands nor flinch back without almost toppling over.

He chokes on a scream when the weight of the creature suddenly disappears, and clamps his mouth shut while he bites down painfully on his lower lip. As his eyes start to focus his eyes zero in on a person in front of him, stepping back with a— a _frog_ in their hands— had Jean had a _frog_ on his face?!

The urge to move his hands to his face returns, if only to rub it clean of probably nothing, and he’s reminded that for some reason he can’t move. He frantically looks down, can’t for the life of him understand why it’s impossible to move _anything_ when the situation suddenly dawns on him and the memories come rushing back. At this point he understands it’s pain he feels around the back of his head and quickly realises why.

Looking up as quickly as he does only serves him a headache and dizziness that forces him to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment. He reasons it’s not too strange that everything looks blurry and his head starts pounding from such a rapid movement after taking a frying pan to the head.

He takes a deep breath to get his head back in order, but the breath catches in his throat when someone—probably the person who hit him and let a frog crawl on his goddamn face—clears their throat.

“Uh, a-are you okay?” The voice is that of a male and it’s _soft_ and… _wavering_? 

“Yeah, I’m— I’m fucking grand, thanks for asking,” Jean rasps, realising his own voice isn’t exactly steady either.

“I— Are you sure?” The voice sounds incredulous and at that Jean finally opens his eyes and looks up, more slowly this time. He knows whoever’s talking is in front of him.

His eyes fixes on the young man in front of him— _and yup_ , the same man that knocked him out with a frying pan, but Jean could be convinced otherwise solely by the other man’s looks. His face speaks volumes of kindness and innocence, the spray of freckles scattering his cheeks and spreading down his neck only serving to add to that impression.

His skin tone is dark, and Jean would probably look like a ghost next to him what with his own pale complexion. His eyebrows don’t look like they’re constantly set in a frown like Jean’s or Ymir’s or, thank fuck, _Levi’s_ —the crease currently between the young man’s eyebrows looks like it’s unused to being there; like his face has never had a wrinkle there before. His hair is in two slightly different shades of brown, strangely, and pulled back in a messy ponytail which, despite how messy it looks, doesn’t hide how clean, soft and undamaged it looks. Not even the ends hanging over the young man’s shoulders look even remotely damaged. Following the broad shape of the man’s shoulders clad in pink, formal clothing Jean notes that the other is quite muscular, and it’s especially evident by the look of his arms. The bulge of the other’s tense bicep almost makes Jean’s mouth water, and the man just looks _too nice_ and young for those muscles. His robust physique even looks natural, and that’s just _unfair_. It’s enough that Jean looks lanky next to Ymir, but this? This man looks no older than _eighteen_ , and Jean’s soon to be _twenty-one_.

Jean huffs, both in response to the man’s question and from irritation caused by the injustice of this world. His eyes climb back up to the other’s face and he frowns. _Are you sure?_ he’d asked. _No_ , of course Jean isn’t okay, his head is pounding and he’s pretty sure his eyes actually rolled around in his head only seconds ago. _And_ his capturer looks _ridiculously_ good and that’s just plain cruel. But the man, for some reason, has a hint of _concern_ in his voice—even though his posture and facial expression is schooled into something more collected—and Jean’s following sentence comes out less upset than intended—but upset all the same.

“You hit me in the head with a _frying pan_ , and I’m actually questioning whether my brain is still whole or currently rolling around loose in my head. _And I’m tied to a goddamn chair!_ ” To emphasise his point he wiggles his arms, tugging at the rope, scowling pointedly and accusingly at the young man in front of him. “Of _course_ I am not okay.” At the same time, Jean is genuinely confused that this is the same man that hit him and tied him to said chair—he seems like he wouldn’t be capable of something like that. But apparently he is, and Jean knows better than to underestimate someone by their looks and he can’t deny the fear twisting his insides at being stuck like this.

In response to Jean’s accusing tone the other pulls his eyebrows down in a deeper frown, and that’s when Jean notices the frying pan still in his hand as it twitches, though thankfully not raised this time. A slight movement on his shoulder catches Jean’s attention for a second, during which he learns that the frog seemingly is the man’s _pet_ , currently perched on his shoulders. What the fuck has Jean stumbled into.

“You broke into my home!” the man exclaims defensively and this Jean cannot deny; he feels a little bit ashamed, even. “And you w-were reaching for your knife. If I hadn’t hit you you would have stabbed me.”

“I—” Jean stops, not sure what he’d intended to say. He had definitely not meant to stab the other man, grabbing his knife had merely been a precaution after seeing someone raising a weapon at him. “I wouldn’t have stabbed you, but you with your frying pan like that, it was fucking alarming. It was an instinct, okay? Now will you _lay off_ of me, I’m— Oh. _Ohh no._ ” Jean is wringing his head around in panic, having just realised his satchel is gone and he can’t spot it anywhere in the room. He turns back to the man and pins him with a hard stare as he demands, “ _What_ have you done with my satchel, princess?”

The nickname does not seem to flatter the other man at all, as he clenches his jaws and looks thoroughly disgruntled; a look that really doesn’t fit his kind face. “My _name_ is Marco.”

“Okay, _Marco_ , where the hell have you put my satchel?” Jean grounds out, _very_ impatient and getting increasingly more worried by the second. Ymir and Annie will _skin him alive_ and being wanted dead by the entire kingdom will have been for naught.

The young man— _Marco_ —suddenly looks calm and strangely confident.

“I’ve hidden it.”

“ _Where?_ ” Jean cries, unable to keep his panic and frustration out of his high-pitched voice.

“I’m not telling you. Not until you— you tell me who you are and why you’re here. Are you here for my hair? Are you planning on selling it?”

Now Jean is not only frustrated, but also thoroughly confused. He’s even at a loss for words for a moment. His eyes search Marco’s face for a sign that he’s joking, but the other’s expression is dead serious. Then he flicks to Marco’s hair, tied back in that unruly ponytail. It’s dark and long and that’s it, there’s nothing peculiar about it at all; why would he want to sell it?

“I… don’t want anything with your hair?” He’s so bewildered over the assumption he couldn’t keep his sentence from turning into question, wondering if he’d heard wrong or something. “It _might_ even be at the top of things I do not care about.”

Strangely enough, Marco seems to relax slightly at that, shoulders not hunching up tensely anymore. Jean is curious, but decides to leave it be; the only important thing right now is to get out of here— _with the satchel_.

“Alright… so why are you here? And who are you?”

Jean forces himself to take a deep breath through his stress and panic over the lost satchel, deciding the best way to work through this is to simply indulge Marco.

“Name’s Jean Kirschtein,” he grumbles, almost petulantly, “and I am here simply for the reason that I was being chased and had to hide. This tower was the perfect spot. Happy, Freckles? Give me my satchel now and I’ll leave. You don’t want me here, I don’t want to be here; it’s a win-win, yeah?”

Now it’s Marco’s turn to look confused, and while he’s silent the green ball on top of his shoulder moves again, albeit slightly. Jean eyes it warily, wondering why the fuck Marco lives with a goddamn frog as a pet. It turns around then, its big eyes landing on Jean instantly and just stares at him, like it can stare into his soul and find out his darkest secrets. It makes him very uncomfortable.

When Jean breaks eye contact with the animal he flicks his eyes back up to Marco, whose lips are pressed into a thin line and with a slight crease between his eyebrows. He closes his eyes for a few moments, looking like he’s taking a deep breath. Then he opens them again and lock eyes with Jean.

“I’m coming with you.”

***

“I’m coming with you.”

Marco almost had to force the words out, but once they were out it was suddenly easier. Now the decision he’d made during the few moments of silence after Jean explained himself was more real. It makes more sense and the more he mulls it over he realises this is his only chance and it’s the obvious thing to do. It makes him feel relieved.

That is, until Jean’s surprised stare is interrupted by an amused snort that sounds like it’s about to break into laughter.

“You what?” he inquires, expression speaking volumes of how unlikely that particular outcome is. He snorts again. “ _Uhh_ no, I don’t think so. You don’t have any business with me and I have errands to run. And people to run _from_.”

Jean’s mocking tone is undoubtedly penetrating Marco’s barriers, but he doesn’t let it show and he refuses to falter. He clenches his fist around the frying pan’s handle and focuses on the tiny weight on his shoulder, seeking comfort and strength from the two. He has to do this; he needs to remind himself why he absolutely _has_ to do this.

His expression remains hard as he looks to the newly painted illustration above the fireplace, gaze jumping to every one of the lanterns he painted there and lastly to himself. He’s dreamt of this his entire life and a chance like this will never come again. If his mother will not take him to see the lights then he has to find another way, and said way is sitting in front of him whose most precious possession is in Marco’s possession right now.

When he looks back at Jean he finds that the burglar must have followed Marco’s gaze and is currently also regarding the painting. Pushing his self-consciousness aside Marco straightens up at the sight.

“Those lights; do you know what they are?”

“Huh?” Jean questions intelligently, blinking back at Marco as though his full attention had been on the painting. “What?”

Marco clenches his jaws. “Do you know what those lights are? They rise once a year, hundreds of them. Have you seen them?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, that,” Jean nods as he makes a waving gesture, as if to wave any further explanation off. “That’s just a thing they’ve been doing for the prince for almost eighteen years now. Everyone knows what that is; it’s the annual lantern-birthday thing. I reckon it’s that time of the year again soon, actually…” 

“In about two weeks,” Marco supplies without even thinking, mentally occupied with the confirmation that the lights he’s been dreaming if aren’t in fact stars, just like he’d been convinced they weren’t. They’re lanterns, and they’re deliberate. The glee starts to rapidly well up within Marco at the knowledge.  
When he focuses on Jean again the other man is looking at him with narrowed eyes.

“Yeah… Why? What about them?”

Again, Marco has to school his facial features so they won’t screw up in glee and excitement; he still needs to convince Jean to help him with this and stay persuasive.

“I want you to take me there and in return, you’ll get your satchel back,” he deadpans, proud over how confident he sounds.

“What?” Jean exclaims, staring at Marco like he’s grown a second head. The chair rattles slightly as though he’d tried throwing his arms up in some kind of hand gesture. “Are you serious? You— you're _blackmailing_ me?” Marco only holds Jean’s stare and crosses his arms. “ _Unbelievable_. You don’t— we don’t know each other and didn’t you hear me when I said I am being chased? Who do you think are chasing me, huh? I can’t just— wander into the kingdom that wants to see me dead, I might as well go straight to the Guard Captain and turn myself in! Believe it or not, Ponytail, I value my life.”

Despite the compassion making Marco want to backtrack and guilt he feels at his own selfish request, he stands his ground, the words, ‘this is my only chance’ on repeat in his head.

“We’ll just— make sure to stay hidden when it’s necessary,” he says, staring back at the other boy.

“Freckles, I don’t think you understand; I am a _thief_ , get it? And I have just stolen the royal family’s second most valued belonging and now they know how I look. This pale-ass face will be known to the entire land as the one everyone wants dislocated from its body.” Jean gestures wildly with his fingers toward his face best he can, all the while looking pointedly, wide-eyed at Marco. “Besides, as you so enthusiastically stated; this event won’t be until almost two weeks. To get to the city it takes _at most_ four days.”

 _This is my only chance, this is my only chance, this is my only chance, you_ can’t _let this slip, you will never forgive yourself and you will never get to see those lanterns for real—_ never.

“You won’t get caught, that’s not going to happen. We’ll see to it so that it doesn’t.” Marco tries his very best to stay confident—at the very least he tries to sound the part.

“Uh-huh, _how_?”

Marco worries his lip between his teeth for a moment. “We’ll figure it out.”

Jean groans and slumps back in the chair, head hanging forward and looking like he itches to drag his hands across his face.

“Goddamn optimistic muscly pain in my _ass_ —” His nearly incoherent grumbling breaks off into another groan before he looks up at Marco from under his bangs with a frown. “The fact still remains that it’s not until two weeks—”

“ _Almost_ two weeks,” Marco corrects, desperation grabbing a hold of him again now that he’s so close to his goal.

Jean twitches, his eyebrow ticks and the corners of his lips is pulled down into a scowl.

“Still a long-ass time to pass,” he mutters, clenching and unclenching his fists. Marco distantly wonders whether his blood circulation has gotten much weaker. “And I can’t stay here for like five days, I have errands; I have to get back to a couple of people.”

No, staying here is definitely not an option.

“I’ll just follow you on your errands then; I won’t be a bother, I swear,” Marco suggests with a hopeful twitch of his lips he can’t stifle. 

Jean levels him with a skeptical stare, raising his eyebrow, but he doesn’t answer right away. He scrutinises Marco’s face in silence before his gaze flicks back to the wall above the fireplace, eyes flicking over the painting. When he looks back it’s with a defeated look on his face and a deep sigh.

“Why are you so desperate to see those damn lanterns and _why_ can’t you just go yourself?” he asks, still with a crease between his eyebrows. “Why do I have to act as your goddamn guide; I might just be the absolute worst person for that job.”

“I, uh. I-I don’t know the way there,” Marco stammers while reaching up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. Technically, it isn’t a lie, but it sure isn’t the main reason. “But it’s been my dream to see them for real since… forever, really. And this is— I guess _you_ are my only chance if I ever want a chance to see them.” He exhales slowly, casting his eyes to the floor, guilt and shame clawing at his throat again. He’s hopeless; having to rely on people and blackmail— no, _force_ them into helping him with his irrelevant, selfish wants. God, he truly is bloody horrible. But he can’t backtrack now, he doesn’t _want_ to. Jean might actually agree to help him and he just can’t back down now, despite how selfish that makes him.

Again Jean sighs, louder this time and when Marco looks up his head is hanging over the back of the chair, long throat stretched and exposed and when he talks his Adam’s apple bobs, “ _Fine_ , I guess I don’t have a bloody choice, now do I?” Jean lifts his head and fixes Marco with a glare. “You _swear_ to give me my satchel after I do this?”

Marco nearly chokes from the urge to shout in glee and at the same time ensure Jean that he is trustworthy, definitely; it’s not like he has any use of the metal thing in the satchel anyway.

He doesn’t choke or shout in the end, thankfully, he only nods frantically until the ability to speak returns to him. 

“Yes, yes, of course, you have my word, I _promise_ ,” he assures, feeling Pascal tense on his shoulder as to prevent himself from falling off by Marco's frantic and excited movements. The relief is making its way throughout his body; making his every muscle relax strangely and stomach feel warm. His heart suddenly feels lighter than it has in _months_ and there’s an overwhelming gratitude toward Jean welling up inside of him, making him want to wrap the other in a big embrace like he would his mother at a time like this. Of course, he doesn’t, but it _is_ impossible to keep the wide, toothy smile off his face. He huffs out a breath as he wills Jean to meet his gaze. “... Thank you.”

Jean stares at him strangely, frown absent as he is completely frozen for a couple of seconds before he promptly averts his gaze, frowning even harder than before as he stares off to the side. “Whatever, I just want my satchel back,” he mutters, fists clenched. “ _Now_ can you get me out of this chair? I can’t feel my fucking feet.”

Marco only smiles wider, feeling warm and giddy, not even caring about Jean’s displeased grumbling as he starts to untie the knots holding Jean—he doesn’t drop his guard completely, and he keeps the frying pan in his hands, but he feels genuinely less suspicious that Jean will try anything now.

Perhaps it’s not under the best of circumstances, but finally, after eighteen years, Marco is finally going to get to fulfill his dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ _when will my life begin_ playing in the background]  
>  here we are!! the official beginning of marco's life. sweet summer child
> 
> madtransscientist.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! And it's almost been an entire year would you look at that. Most of this chapter was actually fully written out for months and proofread several times but I had a lot of trouble finishing it and how I would do that. It was only until my loyal advisor from the start, Tommy, helped me out I finally knew how to finish it up. Despite the long delay it's not any longer than the other chapters but I hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> In the meantime I did post a [oneshot fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7258966) focussing on a trans!Eren, if you're interested in reading that. (I posted that among fics for Haikyuu!!)
> 
> As usual, unbeta'd, and please do leave a comment! They help me a lot. Thank you for sticking with me, friendos. Enjoy!

Jean huffs as he rises from the chair, rubbing his wrists and stretching, all the while eyeing Marco suspiciously; the freckled boy has backed away but Jean almost expects him to pounce again.

He’s still clutching the frying pan, but it’s not raised any longer. He isn’t saying anything.

“...Well? We gonna get going or what?” Jean questions impatiently, eyebrow raised.

“Ah, no, we can’t just yet.” Marco’s gaze flicks to the side, to the window, as he worries his lip between his teeth. “I can’t leave without telling Mother.”

 _There’s a mother?_ How likely is it that she’ll just let Marco head out for two weeks with a stranger? Not at all, Jean guesses, but that’s not his problem.

“When’ll that be then?” he asks instead, not really feeling up for waiting here for longer than necessary, not with Ymir and Annie surely waiting back at the Titan. “I don’t have all the time in the world, Freckles.”

“Oh it shouldn’t be long now! Don’t worry.” Jean scoffs because Marco looks like he’s doing the exact opposite; he’s biting his lower lip so hard it looks like it could draw blood, and every ounce of delight that had been present in his face only minutes before are now long gone.

“No, I think you’re handling that just fine yourself,” Jean retorts dryly, taking advantage of finally being free and stepping around the chair to look closer at his surroundings. There’s a halt in his step when the sudden weight makes pain bloom in his shin, having forgotten about the nasty wound he’d acquired earlier. He shakes it off quickly though; it’s important not to let Marco know of any possible weaknesses.

The room he finds himself in is another circular one, but unlike the previous one this one is ridiculously colourful. There’s art covering _every part_ of the wall and Jean is sincerely unable to ascertain the original colour of it. There are books—some of them already open—littering the floor next to the unmade bed positioned with the headboard against the stairs that presumably lead to the room from earlier.

There are tables along the wall with _masses_ of paper sheets, canvases, paint, colour palettes and brushes scattered on top of them. Admittedly the whole room in itself is generally untidy, but _that_ particular area undoubtedly takes the price. None of it looks clean, either. There’s dried colour _everywhere_ ; on the table tops, the pots, the brushes. From where he’s standing Jean can’t see what’s on the sheets of paper and canvases, but he wonders if those have suffered from the absolute _mess_ that is Marco’s painting equipment as well. Come to think of it, Marco’s hands _are_ covered in paint as well, and he’d had paint in his forehead last time Jean looked.

Sure enough, when Jean glances over there’s the speck of blue still in his forehead, _and_ some yellow on his nose that Jean hadn’t noticed before. _Man_ , _this guy’s a mess._ But perhaps Jean isn’t one to talk.

The freckled boy in question has resorted to pacing around in the room, whereas the frog seems to have jumped off his ride somewhere along the way and is now seated on top of the fireplace. 

Focussing on the wall behind the frog, he properly regards the seemingly recent painting that Marco had used to show Jean what he wanted. He tilts his head and draws his eyebrows together thoughtfully. His hand stills from rubbing his right wrist as he focusses all his attention on the painting, which he could easily pass off as a simple way of biding time, nothing more to it—but when his eyes halt by the figure that looks suspiciously much like Marco himself he finds it impossible to believe.

“You drew that?” Jean finds himself asking, only realising what a stupid question it had been after the last word tumbled past his lips, but it seems to snap Marco out of his annoying reverie so Jean figures he can be okay with it.

Said boy follows Jean’s gaze to the painting, and Jean doesn’t miss how the freckled boy’s ears tinge a slight shade of red.

“Yeah, I— Yes.” Marco fidgets and looks around, avoiding Jean’s gaze.

“The rest of them too?”

Marco starts to pull the chair Jean had sat in toward the fireplace as he absentmindedly answers, “Yeah.”

Jean looks on as Marco climbs onto the fireplace and pushes an actual, physical painting over to cover the most recent painting. Quite odd, but Jean isn’t going to pry; he probably has his reasons, embarrassment might be the primary one.

“Is this like, all you do then?” Jean asks in disbelief.

Marco finally looks at Jean then, once he’s climbed off the fireplace again, and shakes his head. “No, I read a lot too. And create other things. I like it.”

“What, do you _ever_ go outside? How do you have time for all of that?”

“No, I… Don’t go outside much.”

Jean frowns, “Why?”

Marco smiles then, an unconcerned curl of his lips, and gives a light shrug. “I just don’t feel like it.”

But the way Marco looks toward the window as often as he does says otherwise. He looks longing, and Jean wonders if he knows about it himself. This boy is nothing short of strange, and Jean finds himself annoyed by the curiosity tugging at him, urging him to ask more. But he doesn’t _want to_. He doesn’t want to get involved this mess that seems to be all of _Marco_ and his strange life in this tower. He’s already involved as it is, waiting for Marco’s mother to come home so he can ask permission to head outside—to where he apparently rarely goes—like some child asking for their parents’ permission to go play with their friends. Jean feels like he’s the parents of one of these friends and it just feels _weird_. Like, the ‘his-skin-feels-icky’-kind of weird. The longer he is in this tower contemplating his life choices the more uncomfortable he feels. It’s not Marco, per se, there’s just something about the atmosphere in this place that makes Jean want to get out of here even faster.

Suddenly, the silence that has fallen over them is nothing short of _shattered_ by a singsong voice that sounds so cheerful it rings false in Jean’s ears and makes his skin crawl. 

“Marco, I’m back!” the shrill voice chirps and Jean tenses up, instincts kicking in as he gets the feeling he’s in danger.

Marco himself is frozen, back ramrod straight and shoulders squared as though he’s preparing to go through with a difficult task. He doesn’t seem to recognise the danger Jean can feel reverberating through every fiber of his being. He snaps his head to Jean, only standing still for a moment before crossing the room to him. His eyes are wide, and even though there’s nothing of what Jean is feeling there it’s still alarming.

“You must hide,” he hisses, eyebrows furrowed in such alarm it makes Jean’s stomach churn. Marco’s eyes flit nervously around the large room before stopping at what seems to be satisfactory for his train of thought. “Quick; hide in the wardrobe.”

Jean gapes, because despite his own instincts telling him he should hide he can’t believe Marco is ordering him to do just that. Just what kind of home is this?

“What? No, I—” But Marco is already pushing him in the direction of the wooden furniture, apparently not about to give any sort of explanation. Jean growls, “Marco, I am _not_ going to—”

He is being ushered into the wardrobe as the mother calls for Marco again, and suddenly Marco’s movements are a lot more hurried. At the look on Marco’s face Jean knows he should shut up and go along with it, but he still stubbornly keeps objecting even though he knows it’s no use, “I’m _not_ hiding in your _wardr—_ ”

“I’ll be right there, Mother!” Marco calls out _loudly_ , as though his intention had been to shut out Jean’s protests, then slams the doors shut. “Stay there,” he orders in a mumble through the doors, and then Jean can hear bare feet padding in haste across the floor.

Jean’s heart is hammering and he’s not certain what for, only that the voice he’d heard is bringing old survival instincts back, ones he doesn’t wish to dwell on. He begrudgingly takes a deep breath and slides down to the wooden floor, idly wondering why in the world Marco has a nearly empty wardrobe. He quietly leans his head back and closes his eyes, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat by breathing deeply. It’s Marco’s fault for being so _damn nervous_ ; feelings broadcast and now _Jean_ is all anxious too. 

Well, at least Jean doesn’t feel like the parent of a friend of Marco’s anymore, that’s for sure, although he’s not sure whether he prefers this change of events to that.

Knowing it’s of no use to contemplate such irrelevant things at the moment, Jean merely settles for shutting his eyes and let out a sigh through his nose, forcing himself to relax. Nothing dangerous is going to happen to him and he’s safely hidden; he’s fine.

He doesn’t have to wait long before he can hear a second pair of footsteps, announcing themselves by making a clear clicking sound as they stride across the floor.

“Thank you, dear,” Marco’s mother hums, muffled by the wooden doors as it reaches Jean’s ears, and the blond boy finds that the more the woman talks the less he trusts her. “I trust you have been fine without— Marco! You haven’t brushed your hair like I told you to! And your bed’s unmade!”

Even _Jean_ winces at the sudden change of tone and he gets increasingly more uncomfortable from how strict this woman seems to be.

He hears Marco stammer before he appears to be able to provide comprehensive sentences, “I’m sorry, Mother! I completely forgot, I—”

“Bah!” The clicking of shoe-clad feet moving across the floor starts again, this time in a quicker pace. They move back to their original spot only a second later and then there’s a sound of a brush combing through hair. “You’re a complete nuisance, Marco; I can’t leave you alone for even a few hours lest you will fail to take care of even yourself. And you expect to be capable enough to go _outside_.” 

The tone is disappointed, condescending and irritable all at once and Jean wonders whether he should be impressed or concerned. He’s unaware of the fingers he brings to his lips and how he starts biting at already short fingernails, becoming fidgety. He’s not closing his eyes nor leaning back anymore; he’s blankly staring at a spot on the far wall and focussing everything on listening. He’s aware it’s rude to eavesdrop, but he tries to shoo away the guilt and justify himself by debating that Marco shoved him in here; what does he expect him to do?

Jean catches the quiet, mumbled apology from Marco through the wardrobe doors and both sympathy and annoyance flares up within him. Why is the boy apologising? He’s got nothing to apologise for; it’s _his_ hair and _his_ bed.

Jean grits his teeth. _Stay out of it, idiot, it’s none of your business,_ his clever brain warns. He nods slightly to himself; yeah, he just needs to stay out of it.

When the hair is seemingly finished being brushed Marco’s mother sighs. “Oh, you know I hate to have to scold you, flower, but if you’d just do what you’re told it wouldn’t have to come to this.”

Jean cringes.

“I know, Mother. I’m sorry.” 

Jean wants to actually _scream_.

Instead he pulls his knees to his chest and presses his face to them, breathing deeply. He’s massaging his temples and trying not to think of memories that are threatening to enter his skull.

For the next five minutes there is no more speaking between the two family members, the only thing that’s heard is the clicking of the mother’s feet and Marco’s occasional restless padding. He’s dragging his feet—something he didn’t do earlier.

Jean’s gotten just enough time to calm himself before Marco finally speaks up again, albeit cautiously. “Mother?”

“Yes, darling?”

Marco takes a deep breath, “You, ah, remember how I told you it’s my birthday soon?”

His mother stops whatever she had been doing. The following single word is uttered with such warning even Jean shrinks away from it a little bit, “Marco.”

“No, no Mother, just, please listen to me, it’s not about—”

Something seems to snap then. “Marco, I have told you _no_!” Something is slammed down harshly as the last word is cried, as if to put a final to the discussion. Jean has to put restraints on himself to keep from flinching. 

The following silence is deafening, it’s as if everyone in the room has stopped breathing and the tension is only thickening the more the silence stretches. Jean has _actually_ stopped breathing momentarily for fear of being heard; it’s _that_ quiet. He’s not quite sure what is going on or being discussed any longer; is she denying Marco the right to have a birthday? Somehow, from what he’s heard, Jean wouldn’t be very surprised if that were the actual case.

Then Marco clears his throat and lets out a shaky breath, _bless him_ , and time seems to start moving again, allowing Jean to resume breathing.

“It’s not about what I requested yesterday,” Marco mumbles so quietly Jean almost doesn’t hear him. “I have an idea of an alternative birthday present.”

Not a denial of an actual birthday, then.

The mother sighs and, to Jean, the relief is clear in the gesture. “What is it?”

“... Well, I noticed I’m almost out of paint, and most of my brushes are pretty worn out…” Marco trails off, exhaling slowly as he does.

There’s a moment of silence before the mother speaks, “Of course, darling. I might even see if I can get my hands on some new, rare paint. How does that sound?”

“Really?” 

“Well, the trip will take quite a while, and unless you feel hesitant at being alone for some time… “ There’s a pause and Jean imagines Marco shaking his head in earnest. “Anything for you, dear.”

There’s a rustle of clothing and Jean can only guess that they are currently hugging, and yet again he cringes, but at least they’re not fighting anymore.

“How long is _a while_?” Marco asks, and Jean can still detect some hesitation in his voice, but his mother seems to not take note of it.

“Well, flower, it could be up to two weeks.”

“Oh.”

“I won’t leave unless you believe you’ll be alright here on your own.”

“You’ve left me alone before,” Marco points out. “I’ll be absolutely fine as long as I stay up here, right?”

“Right,” the mother says, smile in her voice.

“When would you be leaving, in that case?” Marco asks. Jean has gradually been figuring out what Marco is doing and must say he’s impressed with how well Marco can act and make his voice sound innocent and casual. Actually, he’s impressed with the whole ordeal; he’d never imagined Marco would have jumped straight to manipulating his mother into leaving for the exact right amount of time.

“Even if I were to leave right this second I likely would not make it back in time for your birthday, but by tomorrow morning I will be ready to leave.”

Jean tenses up at this, staring at the wooden door as if he could demand _any_ other option than staying in this wardrobe _for an entire night_. It’ll take enough time to get to the Titan whilst escorting Marco, he doesn’t need to be delayed an extra day and ensure himself an extra day of torture from Ymir too.

Jean sits there through Marco and his mother deciding she will be leaving in the morning and swears to god he’s never been in more of a mess than this.

Eventually he hears the mother leave the room and has to wait for another five minutes before Marco finally knocks on the wardrobe.

“Jean?” he whispers.

Jean stands just as the door carefully opens just a little.

“Jea—”

“What the fuck are you thinking?” hisses Jean in Marco’s face and the brown eyes widen in surprise.

“I— What do you—”

“I will not be spending an entire night in a _wardrobe,_ are you insane?”

Marco swallows and anxiously throws a glance over his shoulder to the room where supposedly the mother is.

“Keep it down, please,” he whispers, anxiety clear on his face, “We have no other choice, she can’t leave earlier than that.”

“Yeah? Well, why wait for her to leave, let’s just leave now,” Jean hisses, tempted to reach through the crack in the door and strangle the naïve boy. “I am _not_ staying in this wardrobe for a night, you hear me? Get out of my way, I’m leaving.”

This makes Marco’s face harden and eyebrows furrow in determination, and when Jean pushes at the wardrobe door it doesn’t budge.

“Do you want your satchel or not?” asks Marco in a low, intimidatingly steady voice. It makes Jean falter in the midst of his fuming. He’d almost forgotten the crown.

There’s heavy silence when Jean doesn’t reply right away. Eventually he exhales sharply and admits defeat by simply backing away from the door—but not without glaring daggers at the boy who insists on making everything so difficult. 

The boy in question heaves a sigh of relief at Jean’s silent agreement. “I’ll bring you food, I promise. And we leave first thing in the morning.”

“Fine.” Jean ends the conversation by turning away from Marco and sitting down again without another word. He sighs when Marco leaves, head hanging between his pulled up knees as he mentally prepares for a long night trapped in a wardrobe.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at www.madtransscientist.tumblr.com!!!


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